The King's orders are simple: Anyone who aids or is established as Supernaturals must die.
Ember Bright, an exceptionally powerful magic user born to Human parents, only had one goal---to survive. That is until she finds herself responsible for he...
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Song: Flowers In Your Hair, Lumineers Content Warnings: Mild violence and strong language. ◃───────────▹
Eight hooves clammer against meadow grass, kicking up mud in their wake. Ember grips the horse's sleek black mane, tugging it ever which way to steer him. They follow a stout young man and his spotted gray horse up the sides of rolling hills dotted with fir trees.
The boy hollers into the chilly spring morning air, his hot breath condensing around him. During his display, his companion overtakes him in their race.
Crossing a rocky brook, the geldings whinnie as the freezing water splashes upwards and wets the feet of their riders.
After the brook, the mountain forest grows denser and steeper. Hokabirds—ever the ugly, four-legged creatures—lounge in the pines. They squawk and nip at the air, their thick yellow beaks clicking.
Mud turns to stone, then thin blades of meadow grass dotted with pink and blue wildflowers. Ember enters the meadow victorious.
"You're slacking today, Lawrence," she teases, swinging a leg off her horse and landing softly on the ground.
"Only 'cause I didn't sleep a wink," he excuses, unsaddling with a loud thunk from his boots.
"Too busy entertaining that girl you scouted from the Doreys?" Ember snorts
"Jasmine is her name. You're only jealous, you could do with the same," he tells her.
"I have no interest in courting men from the tavern,"
"Where else will you find one?" his voice is playful as he reaches into a hollowed-out log. He retrieves a plethora of items from their stash, including a canteen of liquor, a bow and quiver, and a leather bag. Swinging the quiver over his shoulder, he busies himself fiddling with the bow.
"Don't need one. You're all pigs," Ember tells him, only half-kidding. She pats the rear of her horse, sending it off to drink from the creek that contours the meadow.
"I'm a fine gentleman, wouldn't you say?" Lawrence digs through the bag, plucking a pair of cut-up gloves from it. He tosses them her way and she catches them with a slight trip. Slipping the gloves on, they're much too big for her. Her naked fingers wiggle coldly.
Once he's sure she is ignoring his previous comment, he adds, "Don't forget the rocks."
Ember sneers knowingly and adds a handful of tiny rocks to the inside of the gloves, weighing them down substantially.
Lawrence nocks an arrow into the bowstring, pulling back until the feathers nearly brush his cheek. Squinting slightly, he watches Ember toy at the loose fibers pilling off the old gloves. He breathes in, aiming for her chest. Then, he lets the arrow fly. It whistles through the air, halted suddenly by an enchanting blue swarm. Ember's hand twists in front of the arrow, returning it to him. The arrow moves alone, slipping back into the quiver.
